Twisted CSI
by EquestrianCSI
Summary: A very twisted, dark humoured story for CSI. I don't own the CSI name or any of it's actors, producers, etc. I just had a wierd story I wanted to write.


Twisted CSI

The day was starting out rather badly for Gill Grissom. His favourite racing cockroach, Othello, had died mysteriously in his tank during the night, and Gill was in mourning. Being a lapsed Catholic, Grissom didn't go around lighting candles for any little thing any more, but for Othello, he would. The trouble was, he couldn't find one single damn candle in the entire crime lab. Now he was on his way to the chemistry lab to pinch a Bunsen burner. It would have to do, he thought. At least there would be a flame burning for poor Othello. Catherine usually had candles in her office, but Grissom didn't think Othello would appreciate the scents of Butter Pecan Ice Cream or Strawberry Punch candles for his wake.

Rounding the corner, Gill stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead, with his back to him, was Greg Sanders, the lab's DNA tech. Grissom always thought the boy had a screw loose, and judging from his hair, Greg was having yet another bad hair day.

"_Bad hair life,"_ Grissom thought sarcastically.

At the moment, Greg was shimmying his hips in time to the music blaring from the speakers of his portable radio. And to top it off, Greg was wearing a pink feather boa, and a glittery, rhinestone-encrusted tiara. Anger seethed through Grissom's veins, and he cleared his throat loudly. Greg, deafened by too much punk rock at extremely high decibels, didn't seem to hear. Grissom stalked over to the stereo and turned off the music. Greg's high-pitched, off-key voice trembled in the air for a second, before the tech realized he was signing a cappella. Greg turned, blushing in embarrassment when he saw Grissom.

"Hi, uh…boss," he stammered, and swallowed hard before speaking again.  
"I was just…uh…trying to get a feel for how…uh…" he seemed to be at a loss for words, and slowly took off the tiara. Gill gave him a stern look.

"Yeah, what the fuck ever, Greg!" he spat, and brushed past the younger man into the lab. "I need a Bunsen burner; you got one handy?" he asked, and Greg nodded, wadding up the boa and stuffing it behind the computer monitor.

"I was just warming up some coffee," he explained, removing the dirty white ceramic mug from the top of a flaming Bunsen burner. Gill raised an eyebrow. Greg quickly extinguished the flame and gestured toward Gill.

"All yours, boss," he chirped cheerfully, and Gill, still glaring at Greg, reached over and grabbed the burner absently.

"Ow! shit! That thing's hot!" he yelled, dropping the burner and sticking his fingers into his mouth to cool them. Greg looked alarmed.

"Maybe you should run some cold water over your hand, sir," he suggested, but Grissom scowled, turning toward the door.

"Don't tell me what to do, you over sized lab rat!" he hissed, walking rapidly toward autopsy and leaving a bewildered Greg behind.

Dr. Robbins looked quickly around the autopsy room before turning back to the body of the middle-aged woman on the steel table before him. Robbins didn't want any one to know his secret, or they'd send him to the looney bin for sure. It was bad enough that he'd forgotten to release that one body to the mortuary. Hell, the place still reeked from that one. Now, he had to be more careful. He couldn't let anyone know that he was mixing up autopsy reports, and even worse, the bodies were starting to creep him out. Looking down at the body before him, he frowned, picking up a sharp scalpel from the equipment tray beside him.

"Now how do I do this again?" he questioned, looking at the woman's lifeless eyes. "And quit looking at me! I don't like being watched. It's bad enough when someone is standing in on one of my autopsies, but dammit! You're giving me the creeps!"

With that, Robbins grabbed a white towel from the shelves next to him. Slowly, he raised the towel over the body and dropped it on the corpse's face. Looking around the empty room, Robbins grasped the edge of the towel, picked it up, grinned and hollered

"Peek a boo!" before dropping the towel again.

Then, he raised the towel again.

"I see you," he told the corpse gleefully, stifling his laughter with the back of his gloved hand. Suddenly, the doors to the autopsy room opened, and Gill Grissom walked in. Robbins studiously began the first incision, and then looked up at his friend and colleague. He saw the annoyance in his friend's countenance and asked,

"What up, bro?" Gill scowled darkly.

"Othello is dead," he said, and the doctor gasped.

"Oh dear; I will be more than happy to do an autopsy," he offered, and Gill's chin began to quiver.

"No," he whispered, sniffling. "I'm not going to subject Othello to being sliced and diced. He deserves respect and a proper funeral."

Dr. Robbins rolled his eyes. Grissom was entirely too attached to his bugs. It would be a cold day in hell before the good doctor admitted that it had been him that stomped Gill's giant black tarantula in the men's room last year. Dammit, he knew it was Gill's, but the stupid thing had nearly caused him to have a heart attack when it crawled across the wall in front of the urinal where Robbins happened to be standing right then. Gill suspected Robbins had prostate trouble because of the doctor's frequent bathroom visits. But, Dr. Robbins was embarrassed to admit that his bathroom breaks were due to his severe addiction to Red Bull. In fact, Robbins had just had the slogan, _"Red Bull Gives You Wings!"_ tattooed on his left buttock, making it hard to sit.

Gill smacked Robbins on the back of the head, bringing him out of his musings.

"Gosh dang it, Albert! Did you hear anything I just said?" Robbins shook his head in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Gill; would you like a Red Bull? It gives you wings!" Dr. Robbins made flying motions with his arms as he spoke. Gill was agitated.

"You know, Doctor, I just got through finding Greg wearing my fuzzy pink boa and tiara, and now I'm having to listen to you on some sort of sunburned, angelic cow. Now I just feel worse." Dr. Robbins clucked his tongue in sympathy.

"Yes, I told him not to touch those, but he just blew a kiss at me, and pranced right down the hall. If I didn't know he was sleeping with Sara…"

Grissom shot the doctor a dirty look.

"Now you're reminding me that I got dumped by that gap-toothed, emotionless little twit for Greg Sanders. That's just great. I caught them going at it in the DNA lab the other day. I still can't see what she sees in that boy; such a little…" he stopped abruptly. Loud voices sounded from the hall, and Grissom rolled his eyes.

"Excuse me, Ducky; I've got to go check on my children." With that, he was out the door before Dr. Robbins could remind him that Grissom had once again got his TV coroners mixed up.

Shrugging, the doctor began humming the Looney Toons theme song as he sliced into the body on the table before him. Dropping his scalpel, Robbins bent over, picked it up and wiped it unceremoniously on his jeans before continuing.

Outside in the hall, Greg, Catherine, Nick and Sara were having an argument. So caught up in their debate, they failed to notice Grissom standing a few feet away.

"Sara, you little snitch!" he accused, "I told you to stay the hell away from my bubblegum! That was my last piece!" He crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, glaring at the dark haired woman. Greg stepped between them, placing an arm around Sara's shoulders in defense.

"Take that back, you big bully; or I'll tell Grissom you forgot to feed Othello while he was on vacation last week!" He hugged Sara against him, and stuck his tongue out at Nick. Nick bowed up, ready to defend himself. Catherine stepped in.

"You two knock it off," she hollered, and Sara gloated,

"Like they're going to listen to a washed up ex-stripper like you!" she smirked.

Deciding he'd heard enough, and making a mental note to spike Nick's coffee with Othello's ashes in revenge, Grissom spoke up.

"Oh, would you morons shut up? This is a crime lab, and we're supposed to be professional." He looked at Nick. "Run to the store and get you some more gum." He held out two dollars to the other man. Turning to Sara, he added,

"Sara, don't you ever talk to Catherine again, or you'll be swabbing saliva samples for the rest of your career," he threatened, knowing Sara's aversion to spit.

Greg opened his mouth to defend his beloved Sara, but Gill cut him off.

"Can it, String-bean," he said, "I know what you and Sara have been doing in the Denali late at night. If you know what's good for you, you'll drive your own damn car to lover's lane."

Greg blushed bright red, and mumbled something about checking on a blood sample he'd left spinning in the centrifuge.

Catherine spun on her heel and stalked away, looking very much like an outraged, blonde version of the Wicked Witch of the West. Just then, Warrick came around the corner, narrowly avoiding a collision with Catherine, who flipped him the bird as she passed.

"Sheesh;" Warrick sighed, "what got her bloomers in a twist so early in the morning?" he asked, and Grissom shrugged.

"From what I hear, she's been practicing her old routines on you," he said secretively and Warrick grinned.

"Yeah, we've done the lip-lock a few times, I'll admit," he said, slapping Grissom on the back.

Grissom, his mood somewhat lightened at the idea of having a pole dancer at his next birthday party, whistled merrily as he made his way to his office. He would be in a good mood until Conrad Eklie noticed the Post-It note Warrick had slapped on his back a second earlier. In large, black letters, the bright yellow note read: "Fuckoff, Conrad!"


End file.
